


À la folie

by Velvet_Velour



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Jesse McCree, Dom/sub Undertones, Guilt, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Rough Sex, Substance Abuse, Unresolved Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 06:18:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11617707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvet_Velour/pseuds/Velvet_Velour
Summary: Jesse McCree is all about making bad choices and then suffering because of them.





	À la folie

His head hurts.

Now, that’s an understatement of the year. His head feels like there's something drilling into his skull and stabbing his brain with needles. He shouldn't have emptied that bottle all by himself. Then again Jesse McCree is all about making bad choices and then suffering because of them.

The pain in his head is quickly forgotten as he gives in to the pleasure coursing through his body. He shivers, twisting a cheap motel bedsheet in his hands, sweat dripping from his face. He lets out a half swallowed moan just as the man behind him thrusts to fill him completely.

“Fuck, Hanzo, _yes_..!”

Hands dig into his flesh, strong hands holding him with so much force he briefly wonders if he's going to break. He closes his eyes to see the dragon tattoo clearly in his head. Sometimes he thinks the dragon is laughing at him. Yet nothing can compare to the coldness of its owner's eyes, and the pure fury Jesse sees in them sometimes.

Another thrust makes him moan loudly and beg for release. His cock is painfully hard and leaking but he's not allowed to come without permission. He's wearing an invisible collar leash and loves every moment pull of the leash.

“Hanzo, please!” He pleads in a pitiful tone that makes him embarrassed of his own lust. He needs this, needs all of this, and there's only one man who can give him what Jesse McCree truly desires. He bites his lower lip, heat pooling low in his gut.

He grunts, feeling his lover pushing all the way in, then gasps as Hanzo stops moving. His body trembles but he knows better than to do something that could cause disapproval.

Then a hand twists in his hair, pulling his head back so hard his neck nearly snaps. “Come!” Hanzo growls in his ear with the same tone of voice he uses to unleash his powers on the battlefield. The mere image of him standing tall and victorious, controlling forces Jesse can't even begin to understand is enough to send him over the edge.

He comes with the archer's name on his lips. His legs give in but strong hands are holding his hips again, his lover thrusting again and again until exhaustion.

_Something isn’t right_ , his conscience whispers but he forces himself to ignore it. McCree can finally collapse on the bed, utterly spent. He lies still, his breathing slowly calming down.

“So,” a voice breaks the silence and pierces through the haze in Jesse's mind. It lacks the familiar tone, the accent is too similar to his own. More and more cracks appear on the near perfect illusion he so carefully constructed. “Tell me, cowboy...”

Just as the illusion is finally broken, McCree gives up. He opens his eyes to look at the man sitting on the bed. The guy is tall and muscular, with dark hair reaching his broad shoulders. There's a hint of stubble on his square jaw. He's attractive, and Jesse's current state is enough to tell he fucks well, but...

There's always a but, right?

McCree observes the man, not really seeing him. Instead he can notice everything this stranger is not, with every passing second feeling worse.

Next time he should choose someone who's more like...

He winces as something twists in his chest. He rubs his eyes, feeling a massive headache return.

“Who's Hanzo?” the stranger asks with polite concern. Jesse knew the question was coming, yet it still punches him right in the gut.

What is he supposed to say..? Would it make things easier if he actually remembered the man's name?

“He's...” he hesitates and hates himself even more. “Some guy.”

“Some guy, right. You say his name like a prayer when another man fuck you but sure, it's just _some guy_.” He shakes his head in resignation.

McCree is silent, pointedly ignoring the comment. If he wanted someone to psychoanalyse him, he'd go to Angela. He doesn't need it, that pitiful look, especially not now when his head threatens to explode. He lies with his eyes closed, listening to the stranger's steps as he's walking around the room collecting his scattered clothing. His walk is heavy, nothing like the barely audible steps of the archer.

_What I was thinking?_

When Jesse opens his eyes there's no one else in the room to answer his question.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: There is a game played by kids or lovers, where you remove the petals from a daisy and say a short sentence for each of them :  
> Il/elle m'aime... (He/she loves me)  
> 1\. Un peu (a little)  
> 2\. Beaucoup (a lot)  
> 3\. Passionnément (with passion)  
> 4\. À la folie (I'm crazy about you)  
> 5\. Pas du tout (not at all)


End file.
